Ask the Bones (10 page)

He felt rooted to the floor until he heard terrible voices crying out, searching for him. He frantically felt for the edge of the step with his foot and moved into the darkness, forever downward.

His fingers ached from clutching the speaking head. The only thing worse than carrying it would be dropping it and letting it roll down the steps, leaving him alone in that terrible place.

He continued down, trying to shut out the demons' voices, trying to remember to count. When he reached the seven hundred and third step, he was breathing hard, and his legs were quivering. He felt for a door—and found it.

But what was on the other side? He was almost afraid to turn the knob. Then he heard a demonic voice so close behind him that it made his ears ache. He thrust open the door, leaped out, and slammed it shut. Before him was a sunlit meadow, far below the castle.

For the first time in eighty years, the speaking head smiled.

Joseph was so relieved he laughed out loud. “Can you guide me home?” he asked.

“Of course,” said the speaking head.

And so it was that Joseph finally made his way back to Prague with the aid of the speaking head. He arrived on the day of his Bar Mitzvah and entered the synagogue with the speaking head under his arm.

All who had gathered there to pray for him listened to his terrible tale with amazement.

Then the speaking head made a last request.

“Remove from my mouth the parchment on which the spell is written, so I can go peacefully to my grave.”

When the parchment was removed, the speaking head died. He was given an honorable funeral, attended by all the Jews of Prague.

Joseph slowly recovered from his ordeal. But for many years he was haunted by terrible nightmares in which he was nothing more than a head resting on a table, with no body. And he always woke up screaming.

 

 

 

T
here was no doubt. It was a gold coin, lying there amid the seashells on Gombi Island. The fisherman stooped to pick it up, barely able to believe his good fortune.

He had always dreamed of finding gold—the gold that pirates once buried on islands along the Louisiana coast. But never before had he found a single doubloon.

He dropped to his knees and began to rake through the shells with his fingers. He scooped them up with a flat piece of driftwood. He kicked them aside with his feet. But all that afternoon he found no more gold.

Surely the coin was a good omen. Pirates had once lurked here. The fisherman raced to the center of the island to see if he could find twin oaks—landmarks the pirates favored when burying treasure.

When he finally spotted twin trees, he was so excited he wanted to dig with his bare hands. But he needed a shovel, so he pushed his boat into the water and rowed home with the day's catch. He would hurry back after supper.

His wife tried to dissuade him. “You'll get hurt,” she said. “Pirate ghosts hate to give up their treasure.”

“Ghosts? You know I don't believe in ghosts.”

She gripped his arm. “They'll addle your wits. Once you see them, you'll never be the same again.”

But he didn't listen. He kissed her good-bye, grabbed his shovel, and rowed across the silent waters. A full moon left a silvery path on the waves, leading directly to Gombi Island.

The fisherman pulled his boat well onto the beach and walked through the woods to the spot where he had seen the twin oaks. And that's where he started to dig. The sand was soft and dry. But he had dug down no more than a foot or two when he heard a startling noise. It sounded like something wooden being dragged across sand and seashells. The sound came from the very beach where he had left his boat.

He raced back and found the boat floating out to sea. He waded into the water and hauled it ashore. This time he pulled it even farther up the beach. Then he returned to the hole he was digging.

What hole? His shovel was where he left it, but the sand beside it was level again, as if he hadn't taken out a single scoop.

He tried to reassure himself. A big wave must have rolled up the beach and pulled his boat down to the water—and perhaps the sand was so soft it had just slid back into the hole.

The fisherman started to dig again. The sand seemed to be staying where he threw it, but the work grew harder. He stepped down into the hole and threw the sand over his shoulder. His arms were aching and he was breathing fast. Then he heard the trees swaying overhead, even though there was no wind, and he felt the earth tremble. A few grains of sand came tumbling into the hole. What if all the sand slid over him? He was about to jump out when his shovel clanged against something—metal against metal.

The fisherman threw down his shovel and began to push the sand aside with his hands. There at the bottom of the hole was a metal box.

At that very moment, something wet splashed on his head. He looked up and cried out in terror, for there above him, leaning over the hole, were three fearsome pirates. Seaweed streamed from their shoulders and shrimp crawled through their hair. The daggers they held high were dripping. Dripping what? Blood or seawater?

The fisherman didn't know which.

Drop by drop it fell on him, salty and warm. He was trapped at the bottom of that hole, shuddering and desperate. What if they decided to bury him alive?

He sank to his knees and prayed. He vowed he would never search for pirate treasure again if only he could escape with his life. When he looked up, he saw the pirates melt into mist before his very eyes.

He leaped out of that hole. Even before he had hurtled through the woods to the beach, he heard the sound of sand sliding back into the hole. He was gasping for breath, but he managed to drag his boat down to the water.

Just as he jumped aboard, he saw that he wasn't alone.

Another pirate had materialized at the back of the boat. This pirate was twice as big and twice as fierce as the others. He too had seaweed streaming down his shoulders and shrimp crawling through his hair. And two huge sea turtles were dangling from his ears like monstrous earrings.

This pirate carried no dagger. What he held was far worse—a great, curved cutlass, dripping whatever those daggers had dripped. The pirate slashed that cutlass just inches from the fisherman's nose, spraying his face with something that smelled very much like blood. In the moonlight, the fisherman couldn't be sure.

But when the pirate pointed that cutlass first to one oar and then to the other, the fisherman began to row as if his life depended on it. And when the pirate pointed that cutlass out to sea, the fisherman rowed exactly where the pirate pointed, pulling on those oars with the strength of a dozen men.

Hour after hour the fisherman rowed, until he was afraid he would never see land again. He was sure his end had come. He would never see his friends again, nor his wife—his wise, wise wife.

He was so exhausted he could hardly think, but he began to mumble the same prayer he had said when he was deep in the sandy hole.

And lo and behold, the pirate slid silently over the edge of the boat and down beneath the waves.

The fisherman's hair stood on end, for not one bubble arose from the spot where the pirate sank. This pirate was a ghost, and so were the others. He immediately swung the boat around and rowed back home, too frightened to rest his aching arms.

When he was back on land at last, walking to his front door, he saw a terrifying sight. Jammed into the dirt by the doorway was the very shovel he had left on the island, and down that shovel streamed seaweed and shrimp. The fisherman wanted to fling it far from the house, but no matter how desperately he tugged, he couldn't tear it free. Somehow the ghosts had made sure he would never use that shovel to dig for pirate treasure again.

Then he noticed the door to his house was ajar and saw four sets of wet footprints leading inside. He threw open the door and saw a wild-eyed woman sitting by the fire, shredding seaweed. His wife screamed when she saw him, and he screamed, too. For the ghosts had so addled their wits that neither one recognized the other.

 

 

 

T
hree merchants sailed from Persia in fair weather. They had no reason to suspect trouble. For years their ship had carried them safely to distant lands where they traded fine rugs for leather, wool, and silk.

But on this voyage a great storm arose when the ship reached the heart of the sea. Howling winds tore at the sails and huge waves swept across the deck. The merchants clutched ropes and railings, praying they would not be swept overboard. But the storm grew worse.

Suddenly a gigantic wave slammed into the ship, splitting it in two and sinking it. But a beam miraculously rose up from the wreckage, and the three merchants clung to it with all their strength. For two days and two nights they hung on, neither eating nor drinking, and at every moment they saw death before their eyes.